


Crimson Flames, Cerulean Eyes

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crush at First Sight, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fire, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, dean is smitten, don't worry no one gets hurt, unfortunate circumstances that aren't quite as bad as they could have been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 13:36:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: “...We— You barely even know— You don’t even know my name—”Blue Eyes smirks, and boy, does that do something to Dean. “Then tell me about yourself, stranger.”In which Dean nearly sleeps through the fire alarm and meets someone with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	Crimson Flames, Cerulean Eyes

Dean wakes to shrill shrieking.

Wincing at the heavy assault on his eardrums, he raises a hand to paw at his sleep heavy eyes. “What,” Dean weakly mumbles, squinting angrily at the source of the noise.

_ Fire alarm, _ his slow just-waking-up brain finally registers, a mere half second before Dean’s next breath in reaches the same conclusion. It’s suffocating — the air is too hot and thick, like a blanket thrown over his face, stuffing his airways like cotton. Ashes coat his tongue, until all he could taste is the charred dead remains of burnt wood.

Choking on another useless breath he takes in blind panic, Dean stumbles out of bed, landing on his hands and knees. He hasn’t slept in days so his sleep had been heavy; it still drags at his mind, leaving him far too disoriented to think properly. Terror and the endless wailing of the fire alarm pushes Dean to scramble for the door, shoving his bare feet into his boots and shrugging on his robe along the way.

Bright angry flames flare up along the bottom of his front door, smoke coiling forth in dark lethal serpents down the narrow hallway into his apartment. Doubling over, Dean coughs, lungs screaming for breathable air as his body valiantly attempts to expel the smoke he’s breathing in. Dean’s so lightheaded he physically cannot walk in a straight line, and he reaches for the doorknob forgetting the door is made of wood burning from the outside in.

Thankfully, his body manages to flinch back from the superheated metal with impressively swift reflexes for his situation before he could be terribly burned. But there’s no other exit — Dean couldn’t possibly jump from the eighth floor and hope to survive — and he refuses to be cooked alive trapped in his modest apartment, so Dean raises a leg and kicks out as hard as he could, every cell in his body demanding him to _ hurry. _

The door gives startlingly easily, falling straight off its hinges to crash against the wall outside, fire licking greedily up the newly exposed side. Dean tugs his robe tighter around himself and runs for his life, ducking around the spreading flames consuming the hallway in a mad dash for the stairwell.

He staggers down the cold concrete steps at a speed he's even distantly surprised by, jumping down the last four steps of each flight and swinging himself around corners with a hand on the railing. At least there’s no fire — concrete doesn’t burn well, and the place is sealed off by sturdy steel reinforced doors — so the air isn’t too polluted with smoke.

When Dean tumbles out the side of the building, all of its inhabitants are gathered in small groups a safe distance away from the burning apartment, huddled together like penguins as they anxiously wait for firefighters to arrive. Only then does Dean notice it’s _ cold; _ there are actual inches of snow blanketing everything — some still falling in fat flakes from the mournful grey sky — and all the people collectively shiver in unison whenever the slightest breeze picks up. Still, he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, so Dean scrambles over to join the crowd, standing apart over to one side.

It isn’t too bad for the first two minutes. Dean’s still flushed and overheated from his time spent too close to flames and sprinting down the eight flights of stairs, adrenaline helpfully warding off the winter chill. But after a mere three minutes, the wind becomes horribly unbearable, cutting through Dean’s thin robe and black boxers to tear at his skin. He tries his best not to bite his tongue off as his teeth chatter, wrapping his arms around himself and folding over to conserve heat against the wind. His lungs still itch from the smoke and snow is collecting in his sleep ruffled hair; Dean’s so cold, he’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers.

Then something soft and _ warm _ from remaining body heat is thrown over his shoulders and Dean sighs in audible relief. He glances up to see blue eyes more vivid and alive than the brightest summer skies, thick dark hair mussed in a way that _ sex hair _ is the only definition. Blue Eyes stands a little shorter than Dean does and has strong broad shoulders, noticeable even with the large cozy black hoodie he’s wearing. This stranger’s absolutely _ gorgeous, _ and Dean’s mortifying body picks exactly then and there to try and hack up a lung.

After the coughing finally subsides, Blue Eyes is frowning lightly in concern.

“Are you alright?”

_ I’m fine, _ Dean wants to say, but he’s far too busy trying not to physically swoon because this guy’s _ voice. _ Should be anything but legal, because how could anything be so deep and rich and rough without sounding downright ridiculous?

Dean wants this man to never stop talking. He wants to hear Blue Eyes content; would his voice be a low rumbling purr? He wants to hear Blue Eyes angry, hear power and fury in a displeased growl—

_ Okay Dean, snap out of it. _

“I-I’m fine,” Dean finally croaks. And promptly winces, because his voice had definitely cracked like he was a prepubescent tween. Clearing his throat, he fumbles on. “How ‘bout you? Aren’t you cold?”

The frown deepens into confusion and Blue Eyes even tilts his head to one side like an outrageously adorable puppy. Dean doesn’t know if his heart could handle any more of this man. He gestures to what Blue Eyes is wearing, raising his eyebrows in a pointed question.

Blue Eyes glances down at his hoodie. “Oh. I’m alright, I have—” He raises a hand, fingers loosely curled around the thick collar of a full blown winter jacket. “It _ is _ cold,” Blue Eyes agrees as he pulls it on, and Dean can’t help noticing that it’s one of the pricier brands.

A light wind sends Dean shuddering and clutching at the material draped over his shoulders. He folds it over itself around his chest, finally realizing that it is literally a fuzzy blanket. It’s the only thing between his bare skin and the freezing outdoors, so Dean doesn’t comment. Plus, it has probably been taken straight off Blue Eyes’ bed, and isn’t that a wonderful thought.

Dean catches Blue Eyes yawning widely, eyes squeezing shut.

“Hmm,” Blue Eyes hums absently, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he blinks tiredly. “You have anywhere to go?”

It takes Dean an embarrassingly long moment to realize the question had been directed at him. “...It’s burning down right now.”

And then the reality of the situation hits him full force. He just lost everything in one fell swoop; his home, his beautiful memory foam mattress, his computer, his few but mildly expensive cameras. What is he going to do if it takes them months to rebuild? Where is he going to sleep tonight, how is he—

“Want to drive me to my house?”

Dean frowns.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to — I can call a cab — but I figured you also need somewhere to crash for a bit.”

“...We— You barely even know— You don’t even know my _ name—” _

Blue Eyes smirks, and boy, does that do something to Dean. “Then tell me about yourself, stranger.”

“Uh. I—” Dean fidgets, realizes he has been clutching his keys in one hand this whole time and never noticed. He must’ve grabbed them out of pure ingrained habit during his haste to flee. “I’m Dean— Dean Winchester. 80… 7. I do YouTube and like fixing cars, got a younger brother.” Awkwardly, he holds out his free hand.

Good natured and indulgent, Blue Eyes reaches out to shake Dean’s hand. “Castiel Novak, 808. I’m a writer and I enjoy cooking; I also have a brother, an older one. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean.” His hand is warm in contrast to Dean’s own frozen one, a broad palm and strong elegant fingers, soft with none of the tough calluses Dean had developed from working with cars.

“Likewise,” Dean manages to utter in the face of the stunning smile Blue Eyes — _Cas, _ the more impulsive part of Dean’s brain purred in delight before the rational part catches up and remembers there should be another syllable to the name, —_tiel —_ is sending his way. He couldn’t believe they had been literally next door neighbours and he’s never even seen this man before today.

Castiel looks at Dean like he could see straight into Dean’s soul, and it makes Dean want to curl up into the smallest ball to hide from those piercing sapphire eyes. It’s unnerving as hell, but Castiel acts as if he could see exactly what makes up Dean _ and he wants to know more. _ It’s unnerving, but it gives Dean an intense urge to figure out just what Castiel sees in him, why Castiel looks at Dean like he’s a book and Castiel wants to read every single word multiple times.

“So, Dean, what do you say,” Castiel asks around another yawn.

Considering Dean only had his keys and not much else, he figures he would be better off accepting the offer. Besides, Castiel undeniably holds Dean’s interest.

He shrugs, nods once. “Sure, why not. Um, if you’ll still have me— I mean, if it’s okay with you…”

Castiel chuckles — oh Dean definitely needs to hear that sound again — and starts walking toward the parking lot of the apartment.

Dean slides a fond hand along the smooth arch of the driver’s side window, leaning casually against the car to see Castiel’s reaction. Pausing a few paces away, Castiel makes a soft sound of surprise as he takes in the sight of the Impala, almost instantly followed by one of approval.

“It suits you.” Castiel rounds the car, delicately resting a hand on glossy black above the window of the passenger’s side. “Aren’t you a beauty,” he says, so so gently. “Dean must take such good care of you.”

Dean pats the hood of the Impala. “Of course; she’s my Baby,” he declares with a proud grin.

“Beautiful,” Castiel breathes, but when Dean glances up, he finds Castiel gazing directly at him instead of the car.

Ducking his head, Dean feels his cheeks and ears warm. He coughs, fumbles with the keys. “Let’s go.”

Seeing Castiel sitting in the Impala like he belonged there certainly doesn’t help the heat on Dean’s face any, and _ especially _ not the way Castiel is giving directions in a low sleepy murmur.

Fortunately for Dean’s fraying nerves, Castiel gives one last handful of directions (along with the street name and house number) after a dozen minutes and falls silent. Dean lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding and relaxes back into the seat, unconsciously whispering the house number repeatedly under his breath as he dutifully searches for the right street to turn on.

His eyes are wide as saucers when Dean hesitantly rolls the Impala to a stop on one side of the wide snow-covered driveway, in front of a cozy house with large windows and a double garage. Baby purrs quietly, idling patiently; Dean spends a minute just gawking, the blanket slipping down one of his shoulders in the blessedly heated interior of the car. He doesn’t understand why Castiel would be living in an apartment, if he owned a whole house that is many times larger.

“I hope this is the right one,” Dean mutters to himself, turning away from peering through the windshield with the expectation of bright blue eyes watching him like a hawk.

But those eyes are not watching anything. Castiel sat slumped against the door of the Impala — eyes closed, breathing soft and even, dead to the world. Dean can’t help but think Castiel resembled a child asleep; the unique intensity Castiel carried while awake is gone, replaced with a blindingly vulnerable innocence. His thick winter jacket gives Castiel the deceptive appearance of being much smaller than he actually is, and only the tips of his fingers peek out from within the sleeves where his hands lay slack in his lap.

Dean allows a minute to pass, selfishly giving himself more time to see Castiel asleep. He spends another few seconds wondering if he should shake — gently, of course — Castiel, in case he’s a heavy sleeper, but decides against it.

“...Cas— tiel? We’re here— ...I think. Cas?” Despite Dean’s initial resolve not to touch, his fingers find the well muscled swell of Castiel’s thigh. He taps lightly with his fingertips, startles when Castiel stirs. “...Cas…?”

Frowning with a hint of a pout like he didn’t want to be awake, Castiel blinks. Drowsy half lidded blue eyes wander, as if Castiel had forgotten where he was, then land on his own thigh. Dean snatches his hand back like he’d been burnt.

“...Dean,” Castiel exhales on a soft sigh, lips curling upward slowly. “Have we arrived?” His voice is even lower than earlier, gritty and rough as gravel, with an edge of something near a growl.

Yeah,” Dean says, faint and breathy. He clears his throat. Swallows. Tries again. “Yeah—” Dean reaches forward to pull the keys out of the ignition, desperate for a distraction. “...I think.”

Castiel squints out the windshield and hums a pleased sound of confirmation. Without a single word, he’s getting out of the car, carefully shutting the door before shoving his hands into his pockets and striding purposefully towards the house.

Dean locks the Impala and trots after Castiel, holding the blanket closed around himself. Much to his dismay, snow is still drifting down in thick clumps, leaving wet frozen patches on his face and neck. At this rate, the whole city will likely be snowed into their houses by morning.

“After you.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Most of the living room is visible from the sunken but open entry area and Dean instinctively begins scanning the space, committing the largest details to memory as he crouches to unlace his boots. Everything is mostly minimalistic, colours earthy and warm save for a few areas of muted white tile like the kitchen and area he’s currently in, except for some glaringly bright pieces scattered about that stick out like a sore thumb.

To Dean’s left, where he’s taking off his own boots, Castiel sighs. “I _ told _ you to stop adding these things,” he mutters tiredly. Castiel drags himself up the single step, turning to Dean. “Come on in. Would you like a drink? Water, orange juice?”

“Water sounds great—”

“Cassie,” a cheerful voice chirps, “you’re home! What’s the occasion?”

Castiel sighs again. “I told you to stop adding these things.”

“But the place is so _ boring _ without them,” the voice whines.

Curious, Dean pokes his head out from behind Castiel. The stranger is noticeably shorter than Castiel, with dark blond hair the colour of molten gold curling around his ears and a childishly mischievous aura that reeked of a love for tricks. A sweetness also seems to follow him around, a light but distinct scent of processed sugar used in candy. Despite all this, the man still has an air of commanding intelligence. Dean doesn’t know what to think of this stranger, who seems to be living in Castiel’s house.

“Oh, hi! Pretty boy— Should’ve known that’s your type. Couldn’t stand to take him home to that shabby apartment, could you, Cassie?”

Dean blinked, taken aback. _ Pretty boy? _

“Enough,” Castiel growls, and Dean instinctively lowers his head in something near chagrin or submission, even though Castiel’s anger is not directed at him; he can’t help it, Castiel has a voice you wouldn’t think twice to obey, especially when he’s demanding obedience. “Dean was my next door neighbour at the apartment but it’s currently going up in flames; we have both lost everything in mere hours and I’m _ tired— _I will not tolerate this attitude, Gabriel.”

_ Huh, so he’s Gabriel… Where have I heard that name before? _

Then something clicks.

“Gabriel— You’re Gabriel. Sammy’s _ not-so-secret admirer _ Gabriel?”

Gabriel frowns. “How’d… Ah. You’re the big bro.” He gives Dean a shameless once over. “Wow, good looks definitely runs in your family. And height.”

“...I can’t believe this is happening right now.”

“You and me both, Deano. Small world.”

“That— No— Just, no.”

Castiel sighs again — how many times has it been now? — and cuts in before Gabriel could reply. “Gabriel. Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“Yep— And I should be asleep right now; it’s an early one.” Gabriel twitches his fingers in a dainty wave and saunters away. A few steps later, he pivots around, deadly serious. “Dean. Hurt my brother and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Startled by the switch in Gabriel’s whole playful demeanor, Dean only tips his head in a hasty nod.

“Gabriel—”

“You know I have to say it, little bro; just in case. I’ll make coffee before I leave tomorrow, okay? Night!”

Castiel huffs an exasperated sound after Gabriel has retreated into a bedroom, but his expression is fond. “Sorry for my brother. He works with the police— Sometimes he likes to think he is one."

“Nah, don’t worry...” Dean laughs. “I get it.”

“Must be a big brother thing,” Castiel teases with a warm smile. “Is bottled water alright with you? I’m exhausted and I’m sure you also want to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s perfect.”

Dean trails after Castiel to the kitchen, murmuring a quiet _ thanks _ as he accepts the bottle. Now that Castiel’s mentioned it, the whole weight of the night comes crashing down on Dean; tired, he fumbles with the lid of the water bottle twice before he manages to break the seal and take a long grateful drink that empties half the water. He recaps the bottle, dragging a hand down his face with a low sigh.

“Tired?” Castiel’s voice is soft and kind, and Dean realizes just how much he’s missed having someone worry about him.

Sure, Sam never forgets to call when Dean does, fussing with the usual stuff about eating vegetables and going out more and drinking water, but it’s _ different _ when it’s not just a voice through the speakers of a phone. It’s something he’s never noticed his increasing desire for: human contact, not comments or messages on a screen, or the empty _ thank you, have a nice day _ of overworked cashiers doing their jobs.

He must’ve failed to reply on time, because Castiel’s resting a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder and ducking his head to make eye contact, blue eyes worried.

“Dean?”

Dean blinks, slowly, not really focused on Castiel’s face. “Sorry. I— I don’t know, I’m…”

“It’s been a long night,” Castiel says, soothing and understanding. “Let’s get you to a bed so you can sleep; hopefully a little rest will help.”

“Okay.”

Obedient, Dean blindly stumbles along, Castiel a reassuring warmth at his side, coaxing him forward with a supporting hand on Dean’s back. He slides under the covers the instant he sees a bed with Castiel's blanket still around his shoulders, curling up facing the door.

“Sleep well, Dean.”

The light is turned off with a small _ click _ of the switch, and although Dean always found it tough to fall asleep in an unfamiliar bed, sleep is a ready wave dragging him under.

**Author's Note:**

> don't try this at home folks beautiful strangers inviting you to their house is seriously shady stay safe


End file.
